


i'm your ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb!

by screwsfallout



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Grantaire, Caretaking, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Grantaire Is Bad At Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Sick Enjolras, Sickfic, They legit do not know how to communicate effectively someone help them, but he really tries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22496719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screwsfallout/pseuds/screwsfallout
Summary: “Ho-oly shit.”“What,” Enjolras says.“Nothing,” Grantaire replies, walking inside and pushing Enjolras towards the couch. “Except yanno, you look like you're dying.”
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 237





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll this has been in a google doc for ACTUAL YEARS. I JUST WANT TO GET RID OF IT. I have barely edited this, there is no beta, I'm so sorry. Go forth my children.

Enjolras startles awake. He's disoriented, a dream fading into panicked slashes behind his eyes. All at once he realizes this isn't his bed. He’s sprawled out in the living room instead, cheek pressed against the arm of the couch. Enjolras sits up quickly and tries to blink blurriness away from his vision. Part of him still feels cotton-wrapped; sedated and slow. 

He rubs his eyes, wincing at the sharp ache that’s pulsing there. All at once Enjolras snaps back to himself and hears the loud _rap rap rap_ of someone at the door. 

This should be Courfeyrac with his laptop. He’d been forced to leave it at the office earlier that day because _someone_ (Courf! obviously!) had made such a fuss about how _terrible_ Enjolras looked, and how he _had_ to go home, didn’t he feel _awful_ , and what if he was _contagious_. Courf had been so loud and effusive Valjean had come out of his office and practically forced Enjolras out the door. 

“Take the rest of the day off,” he’d said, giving Enjolras a stern once over. “In fact, take the rest of the week.”

“I -” Enjolras had been startled by the suddenness of it all. “I need my laptop?”

“No you don’t,” Valjean had countered, and shut the door right in Enjolras’ face. 

It was mortifying. Enjolras had fumed the whole way home, and aggressively spammed Courf with texts until Courfeyrac had finally agreed to bring his stuff by later as long as he’d _shut the hell up already you heathen ur sicky go to bed stoppp talking to me_. 

Enjolras doesn’t remember passing out on the couch but he regrets it now. Although, it seemed to have done the trick, the last thing on his mind is work. He can’t even imagine checking emails. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Enjolras knows he should be more concerned. This passivity is out of character. But for now he’s adrift in a haze, head cloudy, skin tight.

“Stop knocking,” Enjolras croaks. “I gave you a key for a reason.”

“Uh...yeah, I don't have a key,” comes Grantaire's voice, muffled. 

Enjolras drags himself up and across the apartment to open the door. His palms start to tingle as soon as he sees Grantaire. R’s curls are tucked under a green beanie. Enjolras tries not to stare. 

“I brought your laptop! Don’t kill the messenger Courf said you were-” Grantaire pulls out the computer after digging through his bag. He seems to be in good spirits until he looks up. “Ho-oly shit.”

“What,” Enjolras says.

“Nothing,” Grantaire replies, walking inside and pushing Enjolras towards the couch. “Except yanno, you look like you're _dying_.” 

“You just saw me yesterday. I can’t possibly look much different.”

“And yet,” R sits Enjolras down, pushing on his shoulders. It’s for the best, really. Enjolras is starting to feel all tilty.

“Glad I can still surprise you.” Enjolras says.

“You always surprise me,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras hears ringing. 

He wants to say something, anything, but he clears his throat instead. It’s scrapes, like bare skin against gravel, stinging and raw.

Grantaire's voice replays over and over in his head. _You always surprise me._ Enjolras is still half asleep, and he's trying very hard not to smile or stare or doing something incredibly stupid like tell Grantaire his eyes look pretty. Not only because it's completely, pathetically transparent, Enjolras might as well just laminate a poster that says “I LOVE YOU, YOU ABSOLUTE BUFFOON” but also because it's the lamest compliment Enjolras could possibly imagine giving to anyone. 

At the last second, Enjolras realizes he’s been zoning out, and not only has he missed the opportunity to say something pithy, but now R is now staring at him with a frown.

Grantaire reaches out and presses his palm against Enjolras’ cheek. His fingers are rough. Every part of Enjolras wakes up. 

“You're such a little shit,” R says, moving his hand to Enjolras’ forehead.

“Excuse you, no I'm not.” 

“You really, _really_ are.” 

Enjolras just shrugs.

“Have you taken anything?” 

Enjolras shrugs again. 

“I should have guessed you’d be an impossible sick person.” 

At that, Enjolras feels his entire face turn down. 

“What is happening,” R says, almost gleeful. “Are you - pouting?”

“ _No_.”

“Enjolras! You are legitimately pouting, it's very pronounced, there's really, no I mean truly, there's no way to deny it.”

“Oh my god.” Enjolras digs his thumbs into his eye sockets.

“It's just, you're so…” Grantaire hesitates for a moment. “Cute?”

“I-” Enjolras moves his hands away so he's staring up at Grantaire, “What?”

“What?” Grantaire parrots back. 

“...What?” Enjolras says, again, voice going higher. 

“I'm not saying it again.” 

Enjolras’ brow furrows and he winces as the rolling ache in his head intensifies.

“Shouldn't you be in bed?” Grantaire says.

“Ah,” Enjolras can barely articulate, pretty certain his heart might explode, but whether from the ache or the reality crash is anyone’s guess. “No?”

“Okay, I know I phrased it like a question but it really was, you know, more of a judgment. On how you look. Which is… _”_ Grantaire can't say bad because Enjolras never really looks _bad_ , but “Sick. Sickly? Very pale?” 

“I get it.” Enjolras says and stands up. For a moment, the entire apartment sways. 

Grantaire reaches out, putting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Hey, take it easy.”

“Don't - you're worse than Combeferre.” 

“Yeah, not a chance. Combeferre knows how to deal with your shit miles better than I do.” 

“Shut up. Please just,” Enjolras sighs, “Shut up. Stop talking.”

“Now, that’s, huh” Grantaire chuckles, though not altogether pleasantly. “Now you sound more like yourself.”

“Speaking of Combeferre…” Enjolras looks around. “Where is he?”

“I have no idea, you’re the one who lives here.” Grantaire let’s go of Enjolras and walks to the kitchen, rifling through cabinets. “Hey, do you have any Advil around?”

“Bathroom, behind the mirror.” Enjolras says, content to just watch Grantaire move about the place for now. 

Enjolras is starting to shiver, and he pulls his sweatshirt sleeves down past his fingertips. Bed sounds nice. A dark room, warm blankets. If he sits he’ll definitely fall back asleep. 

“You guys share an electric toothbrush? Oh my god, adorable. Is your head the green or the pink one?!” R calls from out of sight.

“It’s -” Enjolras scrunches his eyes shut tight, and re-opens them, but everything is still soft around the edges. “It’s the pink one.”

“This is the best day of my life. I’m calling it.” Grantaire walks back out, reading the back of a Nyquil box. “I think this’ll probably knock you out.”

“Sure,” Enjolras says, and his voice sounds very far away. 

Grantaire looks up, his face pinching immediately. “Jesus Enjolras, sit down.” 

Enjolras just blinks slowly. Grantaire has a halo around him. Jehan always talks about auras. Enjolras doesn't believe in that, not really, but he does listen when Jehan talks. And right now R looks ethereal. 

“Hey - what are you doing, c’mon,” Grantaire guides Enjolras back down to the couch. He puts a finger under Enjolras’ chin, so he can see his pupils. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras scrunches his eyes shut again and takes a deep breath. “I mean, yes, I’m okay, sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Grantaire says. “Except, do you have a thermometer?” 

“I hate being fussed over.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

  
“I live with Combeferre, of course we have a thermometer.” Enjolras snaps. 

“I didn’t see it behind the mirror.”

“It’s in the drawer under the sink,” Enjolras says. “But I don’t need you to get it, I’m going to take your advice and go to bed, okay?” 

“Uhh.”

“Thanks for bringing my phone.”

Grantaire just stares at him.

“And maybe you should go?”

“Yikes,” Grantaire says. 

Enjolras wants to apologize. Guilt sings through his chest.

Grantaire takes a breath to collect himself. “It’s a good thing you feel like shit because otherwise I might think you're trying to get rid of me.” 

Enjolras doesn’t know how to respond without making it worse or spilling his secrets altogether so he opts to stay silent. That, and everything is very fuzzy. 

  
“C’mon.” Grantaire pulls Enjolras back up, and puts an arm on his shoulder to steady him. Enjolras shrugs it off. “At least let me help you to bed before I leave.”

“Don't do that,” Enjolras says, breathing in through his nose. 

“What, manhandle you?”

“No, condescend to me.”

“I'm not being condescending. Actually, I'm never condescending. _You're_ condescending.” 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras groans, and it scrapes through his throat. 

“I'm just saying.”

“You're arguing.”

“ _You're_ arguing.”

“No, you -” Enjolras shakes his head once, and it sends sparks flying behind his eyelids. “I'm not doing this right now. I'm too tired to…” Enjolras shakes his hand once, recklessly close to Grantaire's face. “To do whatever this is.”

R shrugs. “Guess that means I win this one.”

“What? No. You didn't win anything.”

“Well, I kind of did.”

“No you didn't.”

“You gave up. Ergo..”

“I didn't give up! I tabled it - I'm tabling it.”

“Thaaaat sounds a lot like giving up.”

“Grantaire I -” Enjolras takes a few deep breaths, which catch painfully in his chest. “You know what, fine. You win.”

Grantaire whistles, exaggerated. “You must really feel bad, huh?” 

“Well I'm not feeling _good_ ,” Enjolras responds, pinching the bridge of his nose, and wishing he could take a needle and siphon all the pressure out of his face. 

“No kidding.” R says.

Enjolras pulls away fully and falls back on the couch. He is not getting up again. All he’s done since R got here was stand up and sit down like a goddamn puppet, he’s over it, he is throwing in the towel. 

“Listen, thanks for bringing my phone. But I'm exhausted. I really am going to bed.”

“I know you have this -” Grantaire waves his hand, “thing about being coddled, which by the way please go to therapy oh my god, but also should you be alone right now? I feel like I should stay and at least make sure you don't smother yourself with a pillow.”

“I just want to sleep.” Enjolras huffs. 

“I'm not stopping you.” 

“You're distracting me.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes and hops on the couch, grabbing the remote from the coffee table. “I haven't even put something on yet!” 

“I'm not watching The Twilight Zone,” Enjolras says under his breath, lips curled downward.

“Like, this is - still shocking,” R says, grinning. “I can't believe I’ve never seen you pout before.” 

Enjolras buries his head into a pillow, making a small, rasped noise of disbelief. 

“See! I was right! You're already smothering yourself,” Grantaire says, pulling the pillow away. 

“I need that.”

“I'll give it back when you can be more responsible.”

“I'm getting mixed signals,” Enjolras says. 

“Mercurial is my brand, Enjolras, you know this.”

Enjolras’ fingers twitch as he's inexplicably filled with the urge to press his fingers to Grantaire's lips. Instead of doing that, he decides enough is enough, and lays down, head falling onto the reclaimed pillow on Grantaire's lap.

“What is happening here.” 

“It's your own fault,” Enjolras says. “You stole it.”

“Yeah so you didn't shuffle off this mortal coil through self-smothering, which is, so you know, a pretty lame way to die.”

Enjolras doesn't answer, just closes his eyes because lights are starting to send slow ripples across his vision. 

Grantaire, for all his bravado, is staring, with hands hovering over Enjolras’ hair. 

“So you're not moving then?”

“Do you want me to?” 

“No, I mean - not if you're comfortable. Are you comfortable?”

“Mhm,” Enjolras manages to mutter, before his eyes close. There’s not a slow nodding off, it’s one beat and he’s asleep. 

“Well,” R whispers to himself. “Guess I’m stuck here.” 

Grantaire watches TV, hyper aware of Enjolras in his lap. The heat. The weight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends I am so sorry, I barely edited this, I just needed to not have this looming over my head any longer, rip in pieces to my writing stamina/ability during quarantine
> 
> I know it's not resolved and there is a big gap of time missing but this is what I have for you, ily all, byeeeeee

Grantaire sits still as a statue with Enjolras in his lap - as if any minor movement would break the spell and send Enjolras away forever. 

1 episode of Twilight Zone turns into 2 turns into 3 turns into 4. Grantaire won’t be the first to move, it’s like having a cat on your lap, he’s legally bound to be a pillow for the foreseeable future. 

Finally, Enjolras stirs. Or rather, he groans himself awake, blinks quite a few times, and finally looks up, affixing Grantaire with the most steely glare he can manage.

“Less piercing than normal, but points for effort I guess.” R says.

“Good.” Enjolras says decisively, “you’re back to normal.”

“I’m back to  _ what  _ now?” Grantaire asks. 

“Back to normal. You were getting fussy earlier and I thought you may have been possessed.”

“You have a fever and nothing you say makes sense today.”

“I didn’t think you’d get fussy like that, not with me.”

“I’m not fussy.”

Enjolras shrugs which makes Grantaire want to argue more. 

“I'm not.” He can’t help himself. 

“You were being too nice, it freaked me out,”

“Too nice…? Wait a second, too  _ nice _ ? Are you - do you deliberately rile me up? So I won't be  _ nice _ to you?!” 

“Grantaire I'm not a monster.”

“Oh my god, everything I know about you is a lie.”

“Now you're just being dramatic.” Enjolras coughs into his elbow, curling away from Grantaire. 

“You  _ like _ fighting with me.” 

“I didn't say that.”

“You do, though, you actually like it!”

“Stop.”

“You like it?! When we fight?!”

“Not when we  _ actually _ \- obviously I don't like when we're actually fighting. But I guess, I don't mind when you tease me.” 

Grantaire's entire internal monologue goes haywire, morphing into what is essentially a blaring foghorn. He has to say something now before his brain catches up. “Can you close your eyes?”  He asks Enjolras so quickly that the sentence sounds like one big word. 

“What?” Enjolras says.

“Close your eyes, close your - your eyes Enjolras, why are they still open, fuck - whatever I'll just…” Grantaire puts his hand over Enjolras’ eyes. His touch is cool and soothing. It blocks out all the light. 

Grantaire frowns, momentarily distracted. “You’re still burning up, kid.” 

“Did you just call me kid?” Enjolras asks weakly. “What is happening right now.”

“Oh nothing much, I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“Why is your hand over my eyes.”

“Ha, yeah. So I just wanted to tell you that, I guess. I guess I don't mind teasing you, either. I like when we - talk.” Grantaire says, with all the weight of a confession. 

Enjolras feels momentarily like his throat has closed up, like he can only siphon air through a small straw. Past the heat in his head comes a very clear realization that what he says next will matter. They are having one conversation with words but a whole other conversation underneath. 

Enjolras’ knee jerk reaction is to quip back, a little dismissive, something like _ ‘shocking, really. I never would have guessed _ .’

But that wouldn’t be right. That would ruin it - though Enjolras isn’t entirely sure he even knows what “it” is. He feels intensely and achingly vulnerable right now. He knows what Grantaire is trying to say. If Enjolras is honest, he’s always kind of known what Grantaire has been saying. For years, he’s ignored Grantaire’s poking and prodding. He's taken the barbs and learned to ignore what's hidden within them. They walk around each other like soldiers in a minefield.

What Enjolras really wants, if he's being very transparent with himself, is to kiss Grantaire. He's fought it at every opportunity, convinced himself it was a terrible idea. And it is, probably. They seem doomed to keep hurting each other. But even still, Enjolras  _ wants _ . 

Enjolras’ stomach clenches. He wants to say something to R, and he wants to say it correctly. He's tried before but always got tangled up in the words. 

Enjolras clumsily moves Grantaire’s hand off his face. He needs to see.

“R.” Enjolras says, and his stomach churns and clenches again. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. He’s trying for sincerity, for warmth, but instead he just sounds very far away. It's not something Enjolras is used to hearing in his own voice. He’s not used to being lost. 

It's not a voice Grantaire's used to hearing either, going by his expression, which rests somewhere between concern and regret. 

Enjolras props himself up, using Grantaire's lap as leverage. He's hoping it will help gather all his thoughts, which are currently darting away from him like minnows, leaving only sentence fragments for Enjolras to grasp. 

Sitting up doesn't help. 

God, no, it definitely doesn’t help. Sitting up blurs his vision and sends a decisive wave of nausea roaring through Enjolras. He tries to ignore it - not only because he hates throwing up but because he feels like every second he stays quiet is another step farther away from what he wants; farther away from Grantaire. Enjolras tries to swallow down the excess saliva that's pooling under his tongue but that just makes everything feel more dire. 

“Fuck,” Enjolras chokes out, and pushes himself off Grantaire, sprinting to the bathroom. The floor rocks back and forth, which makes things difficult. He doesn't quite reach the toilet, in fact he barely makes it to the sink before he's heaving. 

Enjolras isn’t sure whether it’s good or bad that he hadn’t eaten yet today. There's not a lot in his stomach, so he mostly chokes up bile. It's viscous and yellow against the porcelain. He quickly runs the sink so he doesn't have to look at his frailty.

“So, okay, definitely the flu.” Grantaire says, walking up behind Enjolras.

“Ugh.” Enjolras has both hands on the sink, not sure he won't start heaving again. He’s panting and his arms tremble even holding on to something for balance. 

Without asking, Grantaire pulls a rubber band off his wrist and ties Enjolras’ hair back into a messy, high bun. His fingers brush the nape of Enjolras’ neck and each touch is a spark. 

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras says, still leaning over the sink.

“Why? It's nothing you haven't done for me.” 

Enjolras thinks of late nights, holding Grantaire's shoulders up, replacing cool wash clothes, making sure he was conscious. Grantaire slurring apologies, and other things, things they never talked about. 

“You done?” Grantaire asks after the moment settles. 

“I think so.” Enjolras takes a few shallow breaths. He can’t tell whether the snakes in his stomach are viral or if they are just a new version of shame. “You should go, this is - you don't have to be here for this.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire crosses his arms. “C’mon.”

Enjolras looks away and puts a dab of toothpaste on his finger, and then on his tongue. At least he can try to clear the taste. His toothbrush is right there, but even the thought of brushing his teeth is exhausting.

“You can ignore me all you want, but I’m not just going to leave you here,” Grantaire says. Enjolras doesn’t respond at first, which R takes as tacit approval, and leads them back to the couch. Halfway there, Enjolras plants his feet. 

“Please stop.”

“Are you still trying to act like you don't need help?”

“I don't.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I can walk on my own. You're mollycoddling.”

“Ah yes, one of my many talents.”

Enjolras shrugs off Grantaire’s hands from his shoulder. “I can do it myself” 

“Sounds like somebody needs a nap.”

“Grantaire I’m serious, I’m really not in the mood.”

“You never are.”

“I don’t need -”

“Enjolras just let someone help you for once, my god-”

“I’m fine, I’ve done it before and-”

“You’re acting like a child.”

“Just - don’t touch me.” Enjolras says. His voice is sharp. It’s a clean cut. 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything.

“I don't need help.” Enjolras says. “I don’t need you.”

“...right.” R says, stepping back, palms up. Enjolras won’t make eye contact.

“Right.” Grantaire says again. His face is blank but it wouldn’t matter either way, disappointment rings clear in his voice.

See, Enjolras thinks, this is what I didn’t want. The words are never right. He’s stepped on a mine again. Kaboom. 

“No wait, that's not what I meant.” Enjolras says. He takes a steadying breath and wills the walls to be still. “That’s not what I meant. I just. Grantaire it’s not you. Sorry I’m. I’m not...? I can’t think.”

“Okay.” Grantaire says, shoulders lowering.

“I get overwhelmed sometimes. I’m not used to…” Enjolras puts a hand on the wall for bearing. “It’s a form of sensory overload, when people - when people try to take care of me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s not you, it really isn’t.”

“Ah the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ bit. A little trite but I’ll give you a pass since I think you might legitimately be dying.” Grantaire says with some bite, but still reaches out and grabs Enjolras’ shoulder. 

“It’s  _ not  _ you,” Enjolras stresses. “It’s me.”

“Alright, it’s you, I don’t care.” Grantaire says. “Can you sit down please? The swaying is making me nervous.”

“There’s something wrong with me.” Enjolras says, and he’s not talking about feeling sick. 

“A raging fever for starters.” Grantaire mutters, pushing Enjolras to the couch.

“I told you, I don't like this kind of fighting.” Enjolras says, sitting down. His legs feel like jelly. Jelly legs. Shaky, shaky Enjolras thinks. Red cherry jelly legs.

He can’t think. His thoughts sound like drunk Courfeyrac. God, it’s cold in here.

“You started it.” Grantaire’s voice jolts Enjolras back to the present.

Enjolras shrugs, because although he can’t quite remember, he probably did. “I'm not good at this.”

“Good at what? Being sick? No one's good at being sick,” Grantaire says. 

“But I'm really bad at it.”

“You're such an overachiever, oh my god.”

Enjolras laughs and it hurts in his head. 

“So what's the plan?” Grantaire asks, hovering near the arm of the couch, trying to seem casual even though every molecule in him is singing to _help help help help_.

“I don't know,” Enjolras says. “I don't think I can go back to sleep for a while.” 

“And you threw up the NyQuil.”

“I threw up the NyQuil.”

“I'm going to get a thermometer.” Grantaire says. Enjolras narrows his eyes in protest, to which Grantaire simply snorts. 

“Enough, Enjolras, you're a fucking mess, let's at least know what we're dealing with.”

“You  _ just  _ said it was the flu.”

“A few hours ago you wouldn't even admit you were sick.”

“I’ve cut my losses at this point. I'm out of plausible deniability.” 

“No kidding.”

Enjolras wants to lay down and turn off all the lights. Everything feels heavy and hazy. Everything hurts. Even his teeth hurt.

“Oh lie down, you look fucking miserable.” 

Grantaire goes to grab the thermometer from the bathroom and Enjolras fights to keep his eyes open. He blinks. He blinks again and Grantaire is crouching next to him. 

“That was fast,” Enjolras says. The consonants go soft in his mouth. Too much effort. 

“It wasn’t,” Grantaire uncaps the thermometer. Enjolras stares at it, brow furrowed. Grantaire eventually places it under Enjolras’ tongue. Enjolras closes his mouth on instinct.

“Enj,” Grantaire says, “are you with me?”

Enjolras looks at Grantaire but his eyes are unfocused. 

“Enjolras?” Grantaire squeezes his shoulder. “Apollo?”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras mumbles. And then there is a rapid, high pitch beeping.

Grantaire snatches the thermometer, anticipating a fight. 104.5. Jesus Christ. 

Is this hospital-level high? Grantaire is so out of his element here, and he knows Enjolras has a thing about hospitals. But he’s also burning. Grantaire’s leg bounces with anxiety. The fact that Enjolras lays politely throughout this internal exchange is maybe even more alarming than the number on the thermometer. 

“This is really high.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I think I should call Joly?”

“Don’t,” Enjolras says, wrapping a clammy hand around Grantaire’s wrist. “I’ll sleep it off.”

Grantaire worries his bottom lip raw. “I dunno.”

“Please, R.” 

“I’m worried.” Grantaire says, because a straightforward approach is always best with Enjolras. “Either I call Joly or I wait here until Combeferre comes back.”

“Stay,” Enjolras says, eyes already closing. “I want you to stay.” 

Grantaire grabs the discarded afghan off the floor and spreads it evenly over Enjolras. 

“Okay,” Grantaire says. 

Even after Enjolras falls asleep, his fingers stay wrapped around R’s wrist. Grantaire settles in. He counts every breath Enjolras takes until Combeferre gets home. 

* * *

It's early in the morning when Combeferre jolts awake. He's confused, and has to place himself for a moment. He's in his room, in his apartment, in New York. It's quiet, and he's comfortable - he's always been a light sleeper, but there's no thunder or construction or anything that might normally snap him awake. 

Then he hears a deep retching sound, and sits up immediately.  _ Enjolras _ , he thinks. Of course. 

Combeferre gets up and finds the bathroom door ajar, light spilling into the hallway. There's another deep, painful retch followed by a few shallow coughs. His throat twinges sympathetically. 

“Enj?” Combeferre asks, softly. “Are you okay?” 

There's a low noise from inside the bathroom. He hears shuffling, and then the door swings all the way open. Enjolras hasn’t stood up, just scooched far enough to nudge the door open with his foot.

Combeferre takes Enjolras in with as much clinical detachment as he can muster. Enjolras’ hair is curling away from his forehead, damp from sweat. His face is pale, his chest is flushed.

“Sorry...did I wake you up?” When Enjolras talks, his voice is ragged.

“It's alright,” Combeferre says, walking in. “Nauseous?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras says. “I tried to sleep it off.” 

Combeferre crouches down. He brushes Enjolras’ curls back, and heat radiates into his palm. 

“You're burning up.” 

Enjolras feels his eyes go wet, but only for a second. “I'm freezing. I know it's the fever but I'm so cold.”

Combeferre’s chest tightens. He grabs the thermometer off the sink counter. 

Enjolras doesn't even argue, just slips it between his lips and rests his arms on the seat of the toilet. Combeferre takes it at the beep and sighs. It's still slightly above 104. Enjolras usually runs hot, but none of the meds have touched the fever. He doesn’t think they need to go to the ER quite yet but... 

Enjolras has known Combeferre too long not to anticipate this line of thinking. 

“I'm not going.” 

“I didn't say anything.” 

“I can tell you're thinking about it,” Enjolras says.

“Yes well, I  _ am _ thinking about it, you're on fire.” 

“Please.” 

Combeferre feels Enjolras’ glands and takes his pulse. Looks at Enjolras’ throat. Frowns. 

“Alright, fine,” Combeferre says, running fingers through Enjolras’ hair. “But you'll stay with me tonight.”

“You won't get any sleep.”

“I'll be stressed either way - better to have you next to me.”

“I don't want to get you sick,” he says. 

“Enjolras I work -”

“You work at a hospital, I know,” Enjolras shrugs.

“I'll either have an immunity, or I won't. I'm your roommate, we’ll find out one way or another.”

Enjolras chuckles but he's taking shallow, even breaths, and his face is going pale again. 

“Alright?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras nods tightly, once, and then pauses, “Nauseous. Maybe I should just stay here.”

“On the floor?”

“It has some merits.”

“Absolutely not.”

Enjolras forces a smile, “Worth a try.” 

Enjolras pushes himself to stand. His eyes are pink-tinged and shiny. His whole body trembles.

“You really don't look good,” Combeferre says, but leads them both back to his bedroom.

“C’mon,” Combeferre pulls back the covers. Enjolras hesitates for a moment, and finally crawls in, limbs heavy. He makes a contented noise, not quite a sigh, but close - and buries his face in a king sized pillow. Combeferre climbs in, too, and turns off the lamp at his bedside. 

“Wake me up if you need me,” Combeferre says. 

Enjolras hums, in some sort of agreement. 

In truth, he's already halfway asleep. The sheets are cool against his skin and the pillow smells like Combeferre; a little like mint and laundry detergent. He's able to breathe easier here. His muscles ache less, and the fog of sleep snakes around his skull. 

Enjolras feels Combeferre pull the blankets over them, and he's overcome with the sensation that he's being tucked in. And then he's sinking into the quiet dark, deeper and deeper, until he's safe, and comfortable, and finally warm. 

  
  


* * *

It's early-ish, around 7am, when Enjolras wakes up to Grantaire's voice. 

He's disoriented - tucked under an arm, and it takes a minute to connect the arm to Combeferre. 

That’s right, Enjolras thinks, I’m in Combeferre’s room. 

Enjolras sits up, which immediately feels like a mistake. His head pounds behind swollen eyes. It takes another few moments but Enjolras disentangles himself from Combeferre and shuffles into the living room. 

He makes it to the couch, but (loathe as he is to admit it) that's about as far as he can go without help. Enjolras reaches for his laptop, but pauses when he sees the Keppler file folder, covered with a drawing, all fine lines. It's a seascape, kind of. A lighthouse and specks of fog, and a small boat out at the corner. Enjolras traces it with his fingers. 

“Good morning,” Combeferre says, yawning, and making his way to the coffee maker. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright,” Enjolras answers, clearly distracted. The pounding in his head quickens. “Better than last night at least.”

“Mornings are usually better, don't get ahead of yourself.” Combeferre replies.

“Grantaire didn't stay the night,” Enjolras asks, in what he hopes is a nonchalant tone. “Did he?” 

Combeferre sets the tea kettle down on the stove and turns. “No, he left when I got home from my shift.”

“That’s strange, when I woke up - I thought I heard his voice.”

“Hmm,” Combeferre replies, eyebrows furrowed. 

“I must've been dreaming,” Enjolras says.

Enjolras pulls the afghan down off the back of the couch, and curls up. He spots the drawing again. It’s beautiful. 

Enjolras can't help it, he smiles, and instinctively covers his mouth with his hands, as if someone else would see and know immediately that Enjolras was smitten. He pulls out his phone and sends a picture of the drawing to Grantaire.

R, he thinks, Grantaire. That’s all he can focus on, even as his body aches. He should probably tell Grantaire how he’s feeling. It's the mature thing to do, and that aside, it's almost an impossible secret to keep when he spends half the time arguing with Grantaire and the other half imagining how R’s paint stained fingers would feel on his skin.

Soon, Enjolras thinks. I'll tell him soon. 

* * *

(11:32am)

_ Enjolras: I like the lighthouse drawing _

_ Grantaire: thats a grand r original  _

_ Grantaire: ur welcome  _

_ Enjolras: I like it less when it's on my client files _

_ Grantaire: fuck the man  _

_ Enjolras: hella  _

_ Grantaire: omg  _

**Author's Note:**

> Just gotta actually write an ending give me like 3 days most of it is already done I CAN'T WAIT TO BE DONE OMG


End file.
